


Stranger in a Strange Land

by elrhiarhodan



Series: Stranger in a Strange Land [1]
Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: A/B/O, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Early 1920s, England Between the Wars, Forgiveness, Friends to Lovers, Happily Ever After, M/M, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Percilot - Freeform, Period-Typical Racism, Reunion, Spanish flu, Threatened Sexual Violence, Unexpected Heat, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-23 01:54:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20884232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: James Spenser, Omega, has waited half a lifetime to find the Alpha who disappeared from his life without a trace, and he's not going to let something as ridiculous as his biology stand in the way of his happiness.





	Stranger in a Strange Land

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kyele](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/gifts).

> Written for my dear friend and enabler-in-chief, Kyele, who wanted Percilot and sheiks and between the wars. Didn't exactly manage sheiks, but went for something sheik-adjacent. And knowing how much Kyele loves A/B/O, I went for it, but with a twist, making English inheritance laws Omega-preferenced (matralineal).

1924 - Egypt

James curses, loudly and inventively in six different languages, including two that haven’t been spoken in at least a millennium. It’s a pity that there’s no one in earshot to praise his fluency.

Or perhaps, it’s a good thing that no one’s around; a unbonded Omega going into heat in a strange land - one with a deep-seated cultural misogyny - is not healthy for that Omega. It’s why he’s in this predicament. The caravan he’d been traveling with had abandoned him in the middle of nowhere, although they’d been relatively generous, giving him food for three days and water for a week - just long enough for his heat to pass.

So James hopes. As a male Omega in his mid-thirties, he’s a decade past his years of prime fertility, when heats brought on a frenzy of need and lasted for a fortnight. For the last few years, James has been relieved that the biological imperative that drives Omegas has barely touched him, that his heats last for no more than three or four days, and they are as regular as the British Railway. It’s why he’d felt confident about making this journey on his own. 

Of course, his partners at his law firm had told him he was being foolish, traveling alone would be an unacceptable risk. They’d even called on his sire and carrier to dissuade him from making this trip, and James ignored their pleas as he’s always done. Not that they’d left the comfort of the family estate to tell James how much of an idiot he was, how he’d stupid to risk his life for someone so unimportant; they’d simply condescended to use a telephone to tell him to do his duty to his family and stay put. It was beyond their comprehension that James could leave England to look for a mongrel Alpha, an Alpha whose excellent bloodlines had been tainted with foreign blood, and worst of all, an Alpha who’d left the shores of England without looking back, abandoning his family and his name. Ironic, since half a lifetime ago, James’ parents had done everything they could to keep him from having his own life. James might be Omega, but that doesn't mean he'll fall into step - he hadn't then and he won't now. His Omega sibling has already proven his fertility; there are three Omega pups in the nursery, four warm and healthy bodies between James and a title he’s never wanted. James is not the heir and not even the spare; he has his own life to lead, and no amount of bribes or tears or threats is going to keep him in line, not anymore.

Now, huddled in a makeshift tent, soaked to the skin from the stifling heat and unfulfilled biological imperative, James wishes he’d listened to his parents and stayed put. London in September is lovely, cool evenings make up for the the shortening days. He could be at his club right now - well, not _right now_, but rather, he could be in his own bed, with a carefully chosen selection of pleasure-givers, and in the next room, a cool bath filled with soothing oils.

Instead, he’s alone in the Egyptian desert, his scent carrying on the breeze and attracting every hungry Alpha within miles. So much for adventure. 

James lies on the ground and prays, although he has never been a man of any kind of faith, which is why he’s praying that the scorpions and the cobras and all of the other kinds of desert vermin stay away. Since he can think, perhaps the worst of his heat has passed, but as soon as that thought crosses his mind, his belly clenches again and the slick starts to run. His heart starts to pound, so hard that he can feel the ground shake.

No, that’s not his heart. That’s hoof beats. He’s been found and he’s going to die out here, broken to pieces under a terrible alien sky, when he’d always planned on dying in Ireland, on a damp, cool day, surrounding by a million shades of green. 

_These are the sacrifices you make for love._

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It’s the scent that wakes James; teasing and alluring in its familiarity. But there’s no way that it’s real, his mind must be playing tricks on him. Or he’s dead and is in Heaven, but James has never believed in such things - Heaven and Hell are made up tales for the weak-minded and foolish.

He keeps his eyes closed and doesn’t move. But that doesn’t mean he’s unaware of the changes in his surroundings. Instead of oppressive heat and silence, the air is cool and the sound of water is like distant music. He’s still on firm ground, but there’s a rug between him and the sand, and something that is far too hard for a pillow cradles his head and neck.

As all of these sensations begin to register, James realizes that his heat has completely passed. No false hope, no biological imperative waiting to take over his brain and body again. He can think rationally; he can act - or not act - as he chooses. He’s no longer a creature driven by his hormones, and that is a relief.

"You can open your eyes, Lancelot. I know you’re awake."

James freezes. It seems that the scent that had woken him hadn’t been a figment of his imagination. Somehow, Percival is here and in this tent. Which means there’s no point in playing possum anymore. He opens his eyes and heaves himself into a sitting position. The tent, though ten times the size of his makeshift shelter, isn’t so large that he has difficulty finding Percival. He’s sitting on his heels, no more than three paces from James’ "bed". James offers his old friend and likely savior a weak smile. "I guess I own you my life."

To James’ embarrassment, his voice cracks on the last few words; he’s as parched as the desert he’d been trapped in. Percival, his expression blank, hands him a cup. The water in it is warm, but to James, it’s nectar from the gods. He tips the cup to capture every drop and sadly hands it back to Percival with a heart-felt thanks.

Percival isn’t the least bit stingy with the precious commodity and refills the cup. This time, James sips it, savoring the water as if it’s the finest French wine.

There’s no delaying the inevitable interrogation, though. Percival finally asks, "What are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be home, pumping out pups for the family lineage instead of nearly getting yourself killed in the desert?"

James ignores the sharp note in Percival’s tone and does his best to bury the hurt those words inflict. Percival can’t be too angry, he’s called him Lancelot instead of James. "I have a job to do."

Percival laughs. "You, a job? You’re an Omega from one of the oldest families in England, what do you need with a job?"

And now there is more hurt that needs to be ignored. James puts on his aristocratic heritage like a pair of perfectly broken in riding boots. "I’m an articled solicitor. All the best families retain me for my skills." James doesn’t mention that being a Spenser opens up as many doors as his winning smile and his Omega biology.

"You have a case that has taken you all the way to Egypt? What happened? Did you thoroughly tick off your senior partners?" Despite the sun-darkened complexion and the native dress, Percival sounds like he’s sitting in a club on the Pall Mall, his speech as crisp as any Alpha of his class.

It’s James’ turn to laugh. "Not at all, I volunteered. Wouldn’t let anyone else, especially not an office junior, take on such an important task."

"And what is the task? Or won’t you say - all hush-hush client confidentiality?"

"No, actually you are the one person I can tell about the assignment."

Percival looks at him and frowns. "Why?"

"Because you, Alastair Percival St. John Morton, are my task, and in a way, my client." James delights in those words; there had been many times during this rather hellacious journey that he’d despaired of ever being able to say them.

"What the hell do you mean by that?"

James shakes his head. "I’m not telling you anything while I’m lying here naked and stinking. If you could spare a little bit more water and point me to my pack, I’ll wash and dress and then tell you everything."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The linen suit is a wrinkled mess, but it’s clean. Well, clean-ish, much like James’ skin, which benefits from a rag barely moist enough to remove the worst of his heat-induced grime. James would give his entire quarterly allowance for two hours in a cool bathtub, but there are no bathtubs in the Egyptian desert and fouling an oasis would earn him a painful death.

So he puts all thoughts of water and bathtubs aside and digs through his pack to retrieve the set of documents that had sent him on his quest. They are wrapped in treated canvas to keep out the bugs and the damp, and the leather buckle is locked against casually prying eyes. James retrieves the key from another part of his pack and unlocks the case, taking out the precious contents.

He’s about to go find Percival, when Percival comes back into the tent without a by-your-leave.

"All is well?"

James nods. 

"So, are you going to tell me what the fuck you’re doing here?"

James hides a smile. Percival only swears when he’s truly off his game, and although it’s been nearly fifteen years since they’d seen each other, some things don’t change.

"Take a seat."

Percival makes a face, but gracefully sits on the rug, leaving the sole camp stool for James. Now that they are finally face to face, James finds it hard to begin, but he really doesn’t have a choice. He’d taken charge of this matter not only because he’d been anxious to find the Alpha he’d once considered his best friend, but also because he’d believed that difficult news should never be delivered by a total stranger.

"I’m the bearer of sad news, Percival. Your cousin Mary died four years ago, along with all of her children - three Omega pups and an Alpha cub."

Percival says nothing.

"The Spanish flu - they all died within days of each other."

Percival’s silence is profound, but James isn’t thrown by it and waits. It feels like hours, but finally Percival replies, "I still don’t understand why that brought you to Egypt."

"You need to know that the deaths of Lord Mary and her children weren’t the only loses the Morton clan had suffered. You are the last surviving Omega and your Alpha cousins Stephen, Andrew, and Michael were killed in the War. Michael’s cub, Roxanne, the youngest member of the Morton clan, has gone adventuring and her whereabouts are unknown. The last letter we had from her was about two years ago, and that had been forwarded from the most remote British Army outpost on the Northwest Frontier. There have been confirmed sighting of her in China, helping to fight off Russian and Japanese incursions, but no direct communication from her since then. You are now the ninth Earl Morton. I have been charged to bring you back to England by her Royal Majesty, King Mary, herself."

"You’ve taken on a fool’s errand, Lancelot. I’m not going back to England. It’s not my home."

James had anticipated this. "Before she left England, Roxanne specifically rejected her claim to the title. If you refuse the title, it will pass to your cousin, Charles Hesketh, who is the last living Alpha of the Morton line. "

"Who?"

"I see you don’t remember him. Charles is tied to the Mortons via Chester King, your grandcarrier’s eldest Alpha sibling. Chester had been something of a reactionary, but he would have been a decent steward of the Morton properties. His alpha grandchild, Charlie, is a wastrel and a coward. He refused to fight and took himself off to Switzerland for the duration. He should have been prosecuted for desertion, but Chester had influence, so charges were never brought. In the three years since Chester’s death, Charlie has run through a considerable fortune. He’ll bankrupt Morton Crescent before the end of the decade."

Percival closes his eyes, as if to shut out James’ words. "And the estate is prosperous?"

"In as much as any estate where a third of the tenants have died."

"What if I take the title, but leave the management to someone a bit more qualified."

"You still have to return to England and present yourself to the College of Arms, Percival. You have to do the right thing."

"Even if it’ll kill me?"

Percival’s words are a bit of a shock to James. "Aren’t you being a bit over-dramatic? You were born in England, raised as an Englishman. Why would returning to England kill you?" 

Percival gives him a look, one that seems to say that James should know the answer to that question. But James doesn’t and he feels like a fool.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Percival stalks out of the tent, past the date palms that flourish in the oasis. One of the young warriors that had accompanied him on this fool’s errand looks up from the small fire, a question in his face. Percival shakes his head. The young Alpha and his companions will stay put, guarding the camp, guarding Lancelot. They know that Percival will slaughter them without question if anything happens to the crazy English Omega in the tent.

Beyond the camp, at the interstitial place between desert and oasis, the darkness is total and absolute on this moonless night. The stars are distant glimmers, too far away to cast any meaningful light. Percival doesn’t mind, he wants to stay hidden - much as he has for the last fifteen years. Once, he’d had such dreams, a life with his chosen Omega, a few cubs and pups to raise in England’s green and pleasant land, never wanting for anything more than what he had. But a sternly worded warning and then a very potent threat had ended those dreams.

He’d left England for the land of his carrier, hoping to find some solace, but although his carrier’s people had accepted him, even exalted him for his prowess in battle, Percival has always remained an Alpha apart, longing for the damp greenness of the land of his birth.

He looks up at the stars, the great wheel of the Milky Way, and curses the gods for bringing the only Omega he’s ever wanted back into his life.

The sound of boots crunching through the sand startles Percival out of his thoughts. "You shouldn’t be out here, Lancelot."

"Why not? If it’s safe enough for you, it’s safe enough for me."

"You’re too reckless." _And I can’t bear to be this close to you._

"Perhaps, but I’m a middle-aged Omega, I’ve survived war and pestilence. A little recklessness won’t kill me."

Shocked, Percival says, "Your family let you fight? I didn’t think England was so desperate that they’d allow Omegas on the battlefield."

"No, I didn’t go to the trenches, but there are other ways to fight. You should know that, old friend."

Even more shocked, Percival looks at Lancelot, mouth agape. "You were a spy?"

"I wanted to be useful. My sire and carrier had great plans for me, a dynastic marriage, more pups to secure the line, but I wasn’t having any of that. I had a substantial inheritance from my sire’s carrier, more than enough to keep me in comfort for the rest of my life, on the condition that I actually did something more than squeeze out off-spring."

It is a night for unexpected revelations and Percival might as well share some of his own. "Your parents told me you were to marry the Duke of Oxford’s eldest Alpha, that the match had been arranged and the announcement would be made once all of the practicalities had been sorted out."

Lancelot chuckles. "Practicalities. You mean, my consent to the match. Conrad is a lovely cub, with exquisite manners. He’s also an invert and has been in a committed relationship with his cousin Tristan for years. I had no desire to be a third wheel in that pairing, married for the sole purpose of bearing heirs."

Percival sighs; Lancelot’s words change nothing - or so he tells himself.

"Is that why you left England?"

"Excuse me?"

"Did you leave England because my parents told you I was to be wed? Did you run away because you thought I was committed elsewhere?"

Percival can’t lie. "James - "

Lancelot hisses, "Don’t call me that - not after everything." 

Percival laughs, bitterness coating the sound. "It’s your name."

"You haven’t called me that since first form. We’ve always been Percival and Lancelot, never Alastair and James." Lancelot spits out.

Percival knows this is the truth. He’d been small and dark, an easy target for the older children at school - a collection of high-born Alphas and Omegas who looked at Alastair Morton and saw his differences as flaws and weaknesses and set upon him like wolves upon a straggling lamb. At least until James Spenser had stepped in. James, who had been - and still is - the epitome of English nobility, tall for his age, fair in ways that would always be celebrated in poetry and art and song, had banished Alastair’s tormentors with a few sharp sentences.

That day, the other boys had been deriding him for his too-fanciful secondary name - Percival - and insinuating all kinds of disgusting things. James, with whom Percival had barely exchanged three words in all his time at school, had suggested that if the boys, a mix of second and third form Omegas and Alphas, had found "Percival" offensive, they might want to add a "Lancelot" into the mix.

At the time, Percival couldn’t understand why this odd display of partisanship made the older boys back off, but he hadn’t hesitated to take this so-called "Lancelot’s" hand in friendship. He’d soon enough learned that James Spenser was the second Omega pup of the Duke of Kilderry, who was a close companion to the King, herself.

It took a little longer to learn that Lancelot was not one of James’ secondary names, but by that time, he’d become so accustomed to calling his friend "Lance" or "Lancelot" that it hadn’t mattered.

"I have to admit, the desert has its own kind of beauty," Lancelot says, apropos of nothing.

"If you like the unending dunes and deadly scorpions and snakes. And the lovely aroma of goat shit-fueled fires."

"Waste not, want not. You forget, I’m Irish and peat is just as delightfully scented as goat turds."

"Hmmm, that’s true."

"And I’m talking about the sky. Don’t see that at home." Lancelot raises his hand to the sweeping arc of the Milky Way. "Last time I saw anything like that was when I was twelve and my grandsire took me to the Giant’s Causeway on Midsummer." 

"It is magnificent," Percival does have to admit. "But not something that calls a man home."

"Then why do you stay? And don’t give me any horse crap about returning to England would mean your death."

Percival recognizes that tone; Lancelot might be Omega, but he’s no one’s submissive. In their shared past, Percival had loved seeing his friend take down Alphas and Betas who thought Omegas were meek and compliant. Now, though, he feels the need to wound. "Your sire threatened to have me castrated if I didn’t leave you alone."

Lancelot goggles. "And you believed her?"

"She pulled a knife on me, slammed me into the wall and drew blood to prove her point"

"I didn’t think she had it in her. I’d heard stories, but I thought they were tall tales meant to impress the gullible." Lancelot waves a hand, dismissing the thought. "Still, you should have come to me, let me know what had been said. In all the years you’d known me, did you ever seen me bow to conformity? To fall in line with my family’s commands?" Lancelot’s tone is mild, as if he’s conversing at a party, but underneath, Percival hears the anger, the hurt.

"Your parents presented very convincing evidence - a betrothal contract, copy of the notice that would go in the Gazette - and I felt I had no choice." But thinking back, Percival realizes just how gullible he’d been. The contract hadn’t been signed, the notice unpublished. "I was a fool, wasn’t I?"

"Perhaps."

Percival feels a bit defeated by Lancelot’s rather noncommittal response. "I was also a coward." May it’s the stars and their cold, distant perfection that makes Percival admit the truth. "I never thought we’d last. I always figured that you’d look at me one day and realize that you’d made a mistake bonding with a mongrel."

"That’s how you think of yourself?"

"No, but I was afraid that’s how you’d think of me."

"You’re an ass, Percival Morton. I loved you." Lancelot’s fury - and that name - is a knife in Percival’s gut. "We’d been best friends since we were seven years old. From the time I had my first heat, I dreamt of the day we’d start our lives together. But you walked away without a word."

"I left a note for you. Didn’t you get it?"

"Oh yes, I absolutely did. Barely a dozen words to end the one relationship I thought would last a lifetime. _Wish you all the best, Alastair_. Now that I think about it, I really do have to wonder why I’ve spent years tracking you down, then coming out here, to the ends of the earth to find you."

But as angry as Lancelot sounds, he doesn’t leave Percival’s side, which give him hope, such a fragile, delicate thing. "Will it mean anything if I tell you that I’ve never stopped regretting my cowardice? That leaving you was the worst mistake I’ve ever made in my life."

Lancelot’s silence is profound. And heartbreaking.

"I guess I have my answer, then."

Percival wants to leave, to get on his horse and ride out into the desert and disappear forever. But he can’t - Lancelot might be braver than any Omega that Percival’s ever encountered, but he’s still vulnerable and cannot be left unguarded. "I’ll see you back to Cairo, but I won’t go back to England with you. Tell the world you couldn’t find me, let my cousin have the estate. I can’t bring myself to care if he ruins it."

"If that is truly what you want."

"It is." Percival isn’t sure, but he can’t go back to England with Lancelot, not when Lancelot despises him.

"I do have one question, Percival."

"Of course. Ask away."

"How did you find me? The desert is a rather vast place, how did you manage to find one crazy English Omega in it?"

Percival was wondering when Lancelot would ask him that. "Your scent carried on the wind."

"You smelled me?" Lancelot sounds utterly horrified.

"You are _such_ an Englishman, James Spenser." Percival has to laugh, "to be worried that someone could smell your heat."

"I guess." Now Lancelot sounds a bit abashed. "It’s just, well, not the thing."

"Maybe, but it saved your life. I got wind of your scent a full day before I found you - you would have died if I hadn’t."

"And I’m grateful for that. The caravan abandoned me when I started going into heat - the leader was worried that an unbonded foreign Omega would send everyone into a mating frenzy. Don’t think he cared as much about my well-being as he did about getting to his destination on time."

Percival and his companions had intercepted two Alphas chasing down Lancelot’s scent. He’d been feeling extremely uncivilized and didn’t hesitate to kill them. When he’d first caught scent of Lancelot, he’d recruited bonded Alphas, who wouldn’t be affected by an Omega in heat.

"I’m just glad I found you."

"Can’t believe you recognized my - ah - aroma. After all of these years." Now, Lancelot sounds diffident, almost shy.

"As if I could forget it. It’ll haunt me until I die." Percival’s reply is a whisper; this is something that hurts too much.

Lancelot doesn’t give him any quarter, though. "And yet, you won’t come home."

"You made it clear that my sins are too great to forgive."

"Maybe they aren’t. Maybe I can forgive you."

"Really?" Percival’s skeptical, Lancelot’s tone is too harsh; he doesn’t sound like he’s contemplating forgiveness.

"Maybe if you stopped running and gave us a chance to find a way back to each other. But if you’re intent on spending the rest of your life being a stranger in a strange land, I don’t think there is any reason to forgive you."

"As ultimatums go, that’s one of the best." Percival stares at the Milky Way.

"I don’t mean it like that, Perce. It’s just - " Lancelot’s pause is fraught and it gives Percival hope. "It’s just that I’ve waited half a lifetime to see you again, and it just didn’t go how I had hoped it would. I forgive you, I forgave you a long time ago. I just want you to come home. With me. Would that be so wrong?" 

Percival feels the hard knot under his heart start to unravel, but he isn’t able to give in. Not just yet. "What about your parents?"

"What about them? I’ve seen them a handful of times since I told them I wasn’t marrying the Duke’s Alpha. I have my own life, one that’s so desperately lonely."

"I have no desire to find myself on the wrong end of your sire’s knife, Lancelot."

"You’re the fucking ninth Earl Morton. My sire is a seventy-four year old Alpha who rails against motor cars and telephones. I think my graduation from Oxford was the last time they left the estate. I am a perpetual disappoint to them - they made that very clear when they called me before I left on this trip. My sire told me if I insisted on behaving like a hoyden, I should not consider myself part of the family anymore."

Percival can’t make out any regret in Lancelot’s words. "You don’t seem unhappy about that."

"I’m not, not in the least. And even less unhappy now that I know they are responsible for all my years of unhappiness."

Finally, Percival turns to the Omega he’s ached for for so long, touching him for the first time in what seems like forever. "If I come back, come home, what will it mean for us?" 

He doesn’t need to see Lancelot’s face to know that Lancelot is smiling. "I would hope it would mean we would finally have a chance to be together."

"Together, how?" Percival feels like he’s riding in one of those incredibly fast Italian motorcars he’d seen in Cairo, barely in control but enjoying the ride.

"Well, I’d hoped you’d marry me."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Percival stares at himself in the mirror, still finding it it difficult to reconcile the well-dressed, clean-shaven Alpha with the image he’d had of himself for the last fifteen years. It all seems rather unreal.

And Lancelot standing next to him, tall and broad shouldered, cheeks pink from too much desert sun, makes everything than much more fantastic.

"You look wonderful, love." Lancelot leans over and kisses Percival’s cheek. "Like a prince coming to sweep me off my feet."

Percival laughs, "What? Not your knight in shining armor?"

Lancelot flicks at the wool suiting, "Perhaps, but in a different kind of armor." Then Lancelot’s expression turns somber. "Are you certain you want to do this?"

"Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet, darling."

"I just don’t want you to feel pressured. It may be the fashion now for Omegas to propose, but …"

Percival takes Lancelot’s hand and kisses his knuckles. "I cannot wait to tell our children how romantic their carrier had been, proposing to their sire under a star-filled desert sky."

"Only after their dashing sire rescued me from my own recklessness."

Percival shakes his head, "But if you hadn’t been so reckless, we’d never have found each other again."

"Perhaps." Lancelot ducks his head, suddenly shy. "That’s something we can debate at another time. The captain is waiting for us."

Percival doesn’t let go of Lancelot’s hand as they leave their suite and head up to the main deck of the elegant passenger liner taking them back to England. The _Queen Charlotte_ is a British ship, captained by a former British naval officer, who is empowered to legal bind two British citizen in marriage.

When Lancelot had proposed, Percival accepted without a second’s hesitation. It had only been afterwards, back in the tent, that the consequences had hit home. Lancelot might be on the outs with his family, but there’s nothing like a wedding to heal a breach, or tear it wide open. He can easily imagine the Duke and Duchess doing everything possible to stop the wedding and driving a wedge between them.

Lancelot, thought, had not been unprepared, telling Percival that he’d always planned on returning to England claimed, bonded and married to the ninth Earl Morton, and had all of the paperwork necessary to make that happen on the high seas. They’d spent nearly a month in Alexandria waiting for a British flagged ship to take them home, and it had been time well-spent, getting to truly know each other again.

Lancelot had also taken the opportunity to send a cable to his partners at the law firm, letting them know he’d located the ninth Earl and would be accompanying him back to London, and would they please handle the necessary notifications to the College of Heraldry and to the heirs presumptive, evicting them from any Morton properties they’d thought themselves entitled to occupy pending Lancelot’s failure to locate the real heir.

But none of that matters now as Percival and Lancelot emerge onto the main deck, which has been festooned with flowers and decorations to honor the bride and groom. The ship’s orchestra plays something Percival doesn’t recognize, but it’s gay and sprightly and appropriate for a wedding at sea.

The captain, tall and commanding in his uniform, smiles as they approach. The other passengers nod and sigh as Percival and Lancelot pass, and Percival can only sense good will from them. Finally, they reach the captain, who clears his throat before beginning the ceremony that will bind Percival to the man he’s loved for almost all of his life.

"Dearly beloved …"

__

FIN


End file.
